


that's the way we are

by 991102



Category: Wanna One (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 15:31:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16478177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/991102/pseuds/991102
Summary: a collection of my 2park ficlets ♡i. ice cream parlor auii. rich kids au





	1. color me

**Author's Note:**

> all of my ficlets are crossposted on my twitter!

Woojin likes to think that colors make up the world; not the earth and the heavens; not the four elements or whatever, no. 

 

Colors. 

 

The oceans are blue.

 

The clouds are white.  

 

The earth is brown. 

 

The sun is yellow. 

 

The sky is whatever color it chooses to be. 

 

Things are colors. Days are colors. Ideas are colors. Emotions are colors. People are colors. 

 

He is made of colors.

 

Park Jihoon is made of colors. 

 

The first time Jihoon walks through the doors of the old ice cream parlor Woojin works at, the sky is orange. 

 

“Hi, what can I do for you?” Woojin asks, polite smile on his lips. Daehwi had made him practice a million times to get his customer-friendly smile right. He had said something about making a good first impression and greeting the customer warmly and politely. 

 

Woojin doesn’t know what difference it makes but he tries his best. 

 

The boy has to be around Woojin’s age; neon mismatched socks and wrinkled t-shirt; but he has this air of youth to him; this vibe that screams sunshine and happiness and not broke college student, no, not at all. 

 

Woojin counts the seconds as the boy taps on the counter and eyes the array of ice cream tubs lining the glass showcase. His eyes land on a certain tub and they shine with awe. The boy turns back to Woojin, a wide grin dancing on his lips, “Yeah, can I get a large scoop of that peach pie flavor?”

 

It’s when the boy is leaving the parlor, wind chimes tinkling above him, that Woojin decides his smile is red. 

 

Woojin likes red. 

 

It’s a nice color. 

 

The second time Jihoon comes by, the day is gray. 

 

It’s pouring outside, thick storm clouds pillowing across the sky as heavy droplets of rain crash onto the pavement. 

 

Woojin wonders what color the sky is beyond the blanket of gray.

 

He’s in the middle of mopping down under the table in the corner when the sound of wind chimes rings in the empty parlor, startling him into dropping the mop. The dull sound of wood against tile echoes for a second before he whips around on his feet. 

 

(Woojin’s already decided the sound of wind chimes is white). 

 

“I’m sorry, did I startle you?” 

 

It’s the boy again. 

 

The boy with the red smile. 

 

Woojin puts on his polite, friendly smile and he moves behind the counter, “No, it’s alright! What can I get for you?” 

 

The boy is wearing a hoodie today though it doesn’t seem to have done much to protect him from the rain. His wet bangs cling to his forehead and Woojin wonders if he should offer the poor guy a towel. While the boy looks at the ice cream selection, Woojin looks at him. 

 

Did he dye his hair?  

 

“I like your hair. Pink looks nice on you.” 

 

Woojin slaps a hand over his mouth. 

 

The boy laughs and it’s melodious and bright. 

 

“Thank you!” he reaches up and runs a hand through his wet bangs, “I was dared to do it but I kind of like it so I left it.” 

 

Woojin nods. 

 

“Can I get two scoops of the pistachio?” 

 

Once Woojin is alone in the ice cream parlor again, he decides that the boy’s laughter is yellow. 

 

Woojin likes yellow too. 

 

Happiness is yellow. 

 

The third time Jihoon comes to the ice cream parlor, Woojin is a bit blue. 

 

Woojin doesn’t really have an explanation as to why he’s feeling blue. He just is. 

 

It’s not sadness, not really.

 

He’s just a little lonely.

 

Woojin doesn’t mind being alone, really, he doesn’t, but he read somewhere online that being alone is far different from  _ feeling _ alone. 

 

At first, he’d thought it was a load of crap, but now he’s starting to wonder if he  _ should _ believe everything that’s on the internet.

 

“Have a lot on your mind?” 

 

Woojin startles, eyes wide at the sudden voice piercing his little thought bubble.

 

The boy stands grinning at him from the other side of the counter. 

 

The boy with the red smile and yellow laughter. 

 

“No. Just a bit lonely here in this empty ice cream shop.” Woojin forces out a light chuckle, “What can I get for you today?” 

 

“Just a vanilla sundae will do.” the boy hums and Woojin nods, reaching for a cone. 

 

“But, uh, I just moved into the apartment complex around the corner not too long ago and I don’t have many friends, so I could maybe keep you company sometimes?” 

 

He rambles a bit more but Woojin doesn’t really hear him. He’s too occupied thinking about what color the boy’s voice is. 

 

Pink. 

 

Pink is a nice color. 

 

Woojin nods, “Yeah. I’d like that.” he hands the boy his sundae, “I’m Park Woojin.”

 

“I’m Park Jihoon.” 

 

Woojin shoots the boy, Jihoon, a smile when he turns to wave over his shoulder on his way out the door.

 

It’s not his polite, friendly smile. It’s a genuine one, snaggletooth peaking out and eyes crinkled into crescents.

 

Woojin doesn’t really know what color he is now. Not so much blue anymore. 

 

He’s made a friend. 

 

A friend whose smile is red and laughter is yellow and voice is pink. 

 

He wonders what other colors Jihoon is. 

 

As he wipes down the counter, he wonders if Jihoon’s stare is purple and if Jihoon’s humor is orange. 

 

He’s not too sure yet, but Woojin decides that he kind of likes Jihoon and all the colors that come with him. 

 

The future is golden.

  
  
  
  



	2. so take my hand, let's dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> parts of a fic i will never finish

 

“Money can’t buy happiness.” rings in his ears as Jihoon loses himself in the mass of sweaty bodies.

 

Jihoon doesn’t remember how he got here again, “here” as in some no name club in the heart of the city, clad in a pair of jeans that fit his thighs just right. The bass of the EDM track falls on deaf ears and he sways his hips to no beat in particular, finding a rhythm of his own. Donghan’s abandoned him in search of a round of free shots and he’s left to fend for himself, dancing alone (though he’s sure it won’t stay that way for long). 

 

Jihoon knows his effect on people—he isn’t oblivious to the stares he receives—and he basks in the attention. He’s no prude, nor is he one to deny himself a fun night. Jihoon’s well aware of the picture he’s painted of himself; a sinner with the face of an angel. 

 

People think he’s easy, and maybe he is. 

 

If one thing is certain though, it’s that Jihoon knows exactly how to move his body to attract attention.

 

So really, he isn’t surprised when a pair of hands land on his hips within the next minute, a warm body pressed against his back, Jihoon doesn’t hesitate to press back, gyrating his hips. Through the club’s heavy stench of sweat, Jihoon can just almost make out the stranger’s cologne—earthy with a hint of spice and something sharp—and he decides that he really, really likes the scent. 

 

The people Jihoon usually dances with lack rhythm and blindly grind on him but the stranger proves to have control over his body, easily matching Jihoon’s hip rolls even when he suddenly changes pace, and Jihoon finds himself mildly intrigued. The male breathes a curse near his ear when Jihoon rotates his hips in a particularly sensual manner, and Jihoon’s sure it’s the alcohol speaking but  _ fuck _ , his voice is deep and so,  _ so _ sexy. 

 

He and the stranger merely dance together for awhile, bodies slotting together in a languid tango, moving to their own rhythm, before Jihoon gathers the courage to turn around, throwing his arms over the other’s shoulders. 

 

Jihoon isn’t sure what he had expected—maybe an average looking guy, maybe even below average. Really, looks don’t matter in the hazy darkness of the club, and a bit of alcohol could make anyone attractive enough for a good time—but  _ this _ , now this is something else.

 

Jihoon can feel his knees grow weak when he looks up at dark, kohl lined eyes, pupils blown and clouded over with a lazy kind of lust. A small, cocky smirk pulls at the other’s lips and Jihoon thinks it’d look greasy on anyone else, but for him, it just  _ works _ . 

 

“Not what you expected?”

 

“Something like that.” Jihoon returns the smirk with one of his own, growing more confident when the other’s eyes dart down to his lips, lingering for a moment too long. “Figured someone with a face like that wouldn’t be in such a run down club.”

 

The other shrugs, hand snaking around Jihoon’s waist, inching lower but not low enough. 

 

He’s bold. Jihoon likes it. 

 

A lop sided smile tugs at the other’s lips. “Could say the same about you.”

 

The silence that follows is odd; comfortable, and yet tense enough to push Jihoon closer and closer to the edge with each passing moment. He’s not quite sure what drives him to make the first move; really, maybe it’s the liquid courage Donghan had pushed into his hands earlier in the night or maybe it’s the inviting, challenging glint in the other’s eyes. 

 

Whatever the reason, it doesn’t quite matter, not as Jihoon slides a hand over the other’s nape and gives a harsh tug, pulling him in until the other’s lips hover over his. 

 

Jihoon pauses, lips just shy of touching. “Is this okay?” 

 

“More than okay.” is what he gets back before the other closes the distance between them, warm lips crashing onto Jihoon’s own.

 

Strong hands tugging him in by the hips, Jihoon is more than happy to adapt to the new angle, fingers threading through tousled, brown locks. It’s a lazy, messy fight for dominance, tongues sliding against each other in a filthy dance, and Jihoon can taste the alcohol on the other’s lips—gin, vodka, is that bourbon?  

 

When they pull away, Jihoon’s quite literally breathless, and the other isn’t much better off. He’s usually not swayed by such a thing, but Jihoon feels the smallest prick of pride fill his chest at the sight of the other’s disheveled state; red lips swollen and glistening prettily under the dim lights.

 

“So,” Jihoon draws out, a practised coy smile tugging at his lips, “my place or yours?” 

 

The other reaches a hand up to scratch the back of his head, almost sheepish as he pauses in thought, pink tongue darting out to wet swollen lips. “I haven’t unpacked yet.”

 

A small laugh slips from Jihoon’s lips as he takes a hold of the other’s hand and tugs him toward the red glow of an EXIT sign, 

 

“Mine it is then.” 

 

Something about the way the other’s hand perfectly fits in his own makes Jihoon think that maybe, just maybe, this one will be different.

  
  


—

  
  


When Jihoon opens his eyes, it’s quiet save for the slight humming of his refrigerator and his own breathing. The soft stripes of sunlight seeping through his blinds tell him it’s  five, maybe six am. It’s still early, and he can stay in bed for just a little bit longer. Breathing a small, content sigh, he closes his eyes and snuggles further into his pillow, shivering as the coldness seeps into his exposed skin. The tranquility of the early morning is almost enough to lull Jihoon back to sleep if not for the sudden movement beside him.  

 

His eyes snap open once realization dawns on him. Jihoon internally scolds himself when it sinks in that indeed, there  _ is _ someone in his bed, and said someone is stirring awake with a low groan. Jihoon instinctively stills and feigns sleep, knowing the morning after process all too well. He decides to fake slumber for at least ten more minutes. That’d be more than enough time for— _ uh, Woojung, was it? _ —the other to find his clothes and slip out of Jihoon’s flat. 

 

Jihoon’s focused on remaining still as he counts the seconds in his head when images of last night hit him in a mirage of sun-kissed skin and rough hands, the echo of low grunts and whispered sweet nothings ringing in his ears. The memory of hot, sloppy kisses sends heat to his cheeks—and maybe down south as well—and his breath hitches, maybe a bit too loudly, he notes when the rustle of clothes halts.  

 

_ Damn it. _

 

Jihoon sits up, albeit slowly in what he hopes is a natural manner, to salvage even a tiny bit of his dignity, and meets the other’s gaze. The male, who is much more good-looking than Jihoon remembers,  _ fuck, _ stands half-naked and frozen like a deer caught in headlights at the foot of Jihoon’s bed. 

 

His pants—which for a simple pair of distressed black jeans, look far too good on him—are unbuttoned, shirt thrown over one shoulder— _ and is that a fucking dog tag around his neck _ ? Mouth gone dry, Jihoon has to force himself to avert his eyes from the stranger’s muscled upper body, busying himself with covering up his own naked body. Jihoon swallows roughly as he pulls his comforter over his shoulders.  

 

Once Jihoon’s somewhat convinced it’s safe to look back up, he does, and  _ holy fuck _ , he wasn’t ready. 

 

Now that he’s completely dressed, there’s nothing that can distract from the stranger’s rugged beauty. 

 

All Jihoon can focus on is the sharp contours of his face and the bright, mischievous glint in his eyes. Jihoon is unable to tear his eyes away when the male brings up a hand to ruffle his own hair, fingers carding through messy ash brown locks. 

 

“Good morning, love.” 

 

He sends a small, lopsided smile Jihoon’s way and something falls into place in Jihoon’s mind. Jihoon had no idea what made him do  _ this,  _ whatever  _ this _ is, this whole waking up and interrupting your one night stand’s silent escape thing, but now, watching the lazy way the other half-smirks-half-smiles at him, Jihoon thinks he knows. Jihoon has always had a thing for boys with cute smiles. 

 

One night stands are (and should stay) a one time thing. For God’s sake, it’s called a  _ one _ night stand for a reason, but the devil on his shoulder is screaming at him to pull the god back into bed where it’s safe and warm and where the possibility of a repeat of last night isn’t  _ entirely _ outrageous, and for some inexplicable reason Jihoon finds himself wanting to do just that.

 

But he doesn’t. Jihoon still has  _ some _ self-control, believe it or not, and he manages to stay put, biting on his tongue to prevent himself from blurting out a marriage proposal. 

 

Jihoon keeps his tone neutral, detached as he offers a small wave. “Good morning to you too, stranger.” And he doesn’t know what’s so funny, but his words make the male laugh, a low snicker leaving his lips. 

 

“I don’t mean to be rude but, uh, shouldn’t you be pretending to sleep?” The male leans against Jihoon’s bedroom wall, gaze sharp and yet, somehow unfocused, as if half-heartedly assessing the situation. “You know, you’re kind of breaking like, every law ever.”

 

Jihoon shrugs. “I know.”

 

The male doesn’t respond for a moment, eyes wandering around Jihoon’s room—Jihoon follows his gaze, face heating up when his discarded clothes enter his line of sight—and it almost feels like his lips are naturally set in a playful, half-smile-half-smirk, an air of nonchalance clinging onto him like a second skin. 

 

“Was the sex really that good?”  

 

Jihoon’s jaw drops— _ did he really just— _ and he has to double take, gaping at the other incredulously. The teasing tone and mischief swirling in the other’s eyes is certainly unexpected, but not unwelcome.  _ Okay, _ Jihoon can do humor. “Woah, woah,  _ woah _ . Wait a second.” Jihoon quirks his lips into a haughty sneer but he keeps his gaze playful. “You do  _ not _ have the right to act cocky.” 

 

The other smirks, brow disappearing behind messy bangs and he tilts his head to the side. “ _ Cocky, _ huh?” 

 

Jihoon groans. It’s too early to deal with inappropriate insinuations. He lets out an exaggerated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose in despair. “I can’t believe I had an immature, prepubescent boy in my bed.” 

 

The male scoffs, gesturing to himself. “Excuse you, but that immature, prepubescent boy has the body of a sex god and he sure as hell knows how to use it.”

 

Jihoon tries to hide his amusement, he really does, but a single choked noise still manages to force itself from his chest. The tiny betrayal of that lone chuckle makes all hell break loose, unleashing a bout of boisterous laughter, comforter slipping off his shoulders at the force of his laughter. Jihoon juts his chin at the door through breathy giggles. “Just go, you loser.”

 

The other snorts. “Waking up just to chase me out yourself, huh? That’s real nice.” 

 

Jihoon holds his head high and tries to feign arrogance, but a grin tugs at his lips. “I’d walk you to the door myself too if I wasn’t naked.” 

 

A smug smirk makes its way onto the male’s lips and Jihoon rolls his eyes. He’s watched enough movies to know exactly what the other will say. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” 

 

Jihoon groans and tosses a pillow at the other. “Will you  _ please _ shut up?”

 

“Only after you take me out for breakfast.” The other grins and he crosses his arms over his chest, eyes shining with mirth. 

 

Red flags waving and sirens blaring aside, Jihoon finds it scary how easy it is for him to nod and say “Okay. Come back to bed and we can get pancakes later.”

  
  


—

 

 

“Fancy seeing you here.” Woojin smirks, taking a sip of his champagne. He looks different without the ripped jeans and messy hair; more mature, dare Jihoon say refined? Woojin looks prim and proper in his tailored designer suit and polished shoes, but even in an entirely different setting, dressed in a manner that contradicts everything he stands for, Jihoon can still see fragments of the Woojin he knows. 

 

It’s the little things that catch his eyes, tiny details that Jihoon would miss if it were anyone else; the hint of a silver chain peeking out from under Woojin’s collar; one too many buttons left undone; the stark black of his earrings; the ever-present mischievous gleam in his eyes. Woojin still carries around that same air of nonchalance, a certain vibe that screamed trouble and was so uniquely his.

 

Jihoon shrugs, biting his lip to fight the smile itching to plaster itself onto his face. “Likewise.”

 

“Want in on a secret?” Woojin cocks his head to the side as he eyes him, that same lazy smirk tugging at his lips. Jihoon nods and Woojin breathes out a short chuckle. “After we had breakfast, I looked you up. Your face was so familiar, but I didn’t know why I thought so.” 

 

Jihoon grins, knowing far too well what Woojin found. He decides to humor Woojin though, brow quirking as he questions “And?” 

 

“Park Jihoon. A socialite. Likes alcohol, nightclubs, and dancing. Real handsome. Nothing I didn’t know.” Woojin smiles sweetly but his eyes are cat-like and sly. “Son of Park Kwon, the founder of PK Finance.”

 

“That, I am.”

 

Woojin chuckles and he stares at Jihoon with this  _ look _ in his eyes, like he wants to say more but is going to hold back. It’s going to bother Jihoon if he doesn’t force it out of Woojin, so that’s what he does, nudging Woojin with his shoulder. “Say it.” 

 

The other feigns innocence. “Say what?” 

 

Jihoon groans and stares Woojin dead in the eyes. “What you want to say.” 

 

“If you insist.” The other breathes out an exaggerated sigh, lifting a hand to count off on his fingers. “You’re rich, handsome, not a complete dick,  _ and _ good in bed? You’re way out of my league.” 

 

Jihoon bursts into laughter, loud and for the first time in a long time, genuine. “You built up the suspense just to say  _ that _ ? You’re a little shit.”

 

He imitates Jihoon’s words, laughing along with him. “That, I am.” 

 

The sudden ringing of Woojin’s phone interrupts them and Woojin’s smile falters once he takes a look at the caller ID. He moves to go, but not before embarrassing both of them with a excessively formal ninety degree bow.

 

“Hold on.” Woojin’s a good distance from him now but Jihoon calls out to him as something dawns on him, eyes wide and lips parted in shock. He hesitates for a moment and swallows around the lump in his throat. “Woojin, what’s your surname?”

 

A slow grin tugs at Woojin’s lips and Jihoon knows he’s fucked. 

 

“Park.” Woojin says, a teasing glimmer in his eyes, before he’s off again. He waves over his shoulder as he takes another glass of champagne from a waiter. “Catch you later, Jihoon.”

 

Park Woojin. 

 

The heir to PL Medicine (as in  _ the _ PL Medicine; the largest shareholder of a long,  _ long _ list of hospitals across Asia). 

 

Jihoon is way too sober for this. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading ! kudos and comments are always appreciated ! if you want to contact me you can find me here on twitter [@heartslgns](https://twitter.com/heartslgns) or on [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/ongdromeda) if you prefer to stay anon !


End file.
